


Darkly Dreaming Arthur

by dogmatix



Series: The Empty Prince [1]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Animal Death, Dexter fusion, GFY, Gen, There is a knife, evil but not bad, graphic death, lots of blood, serial killer POV, serial killer!Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Based on this KMM prompt: Dexter fusion.  Someone is killing villagers; someone who knows his way around a blade; someone who is expertly dancing away from the reach of the Knights of Camelot. No forced doors, no screams of terror, just clean lines that tear through flesh. Who could be so trusted as to be invited into these peoples homes with open arms? But there is one vital clue about the murders that no one knows, save one: each one of the victims are sorcerers. Sickened by the pyre, Prince Arthur takes it upon himself to provide them the mercy of a private death. But what happens when he learns of a sorceror under his own roof?</i>
</p><p>Arthur was born... different.  He makes the best of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

There’s something wrong with me. I discovered this early on, when people around me would smile or cry or frown and I couldn’t understand how or why that worked. I learned to imitate them though, and rather well. I know when to smile like nothing’s wrong, I know how to frown if someone defies me, and there’s always the blank look of superiority if I can’t think of anything else – that one covers a multitude of sins, most of them mine.

My mother is dead. My father says magic killed her, which is why we kill magic. Oh, he says a lot of things about magic being evil and dangerous, but that’s what it boils down to, revenge. I think he’s a little mad. Not in an obvious way, but even I, broken and empty as I am, can see that too much killing invites retribution of its own. I fully expect to die by the hand of a sorcerer one day. What’s that phrase, poetic justice? I don’t hate the sorcerers for it though, after all, if someone tried to kill me, I’d certainly do my best to kill them first.

That was how I found out just how broken I am, through killing. Oh, I’d been hunting since I could sit a horse – small game first, rabbits, birds, squirrels, all caught with snares and knives and patience, then larger game when I learned how to wield crossbow and sword; stags, boars, wolves. I preferred to make the killing blow up close, and Leon would always chide me for getting so much blood on me, but it feels right, the hot, sticky, beautiful red caressing me like warm hands. I would always look appropriately contrite. But I never stopped.

The real moment of epiphany though, was the first time I killed a man. He was a bandit, and I was fourteen. The knights had tracked a group of bandits to their camp and surprised them. I wasn’t supposed to get involved, but one bandit had slipped past the knights and gone right for me. Just like practice, I sidestepped his wild swing and brought my own blade up into his unprotected side, feeling the dragging resistance of flesh and organs like a sweet song that slipped up my arms and along my spine. I gasped, feeling the utter rightness of the moment, and then I yanked the blade out of him at an intentionally crosswise angle, so that the blood gushing from him poured like honeyed wine over my shirt, belt, legs. I watched as he collapsed silently, his bowels letting go as he crumpled and the life went out of his eyes. My heart was beating fast, my mouth slightly open with panting gasps as the beauty of it near stole my breath.

And then Bors had put his hand on my shoulder and told me not to take it too hard, that the first kill was always the most difficult, and I realized. Killing a person was supposed to be difficult and horrible. I hung my head low to hide my face and nodded jerkily. I’d learned to be very good at faking appropriate emotions, and finding out I was a monster was no reason to get caught.

I’d never enjoyed seeing sorcerers burned at the stake though. For some reason, it had never sat right. It was after that first bandit though, that I could pinpoint why. The man on the pyre was old, weeping. Surely if he was a sorcerer, he was a very weak one.

“What was his crime?” I asked.

“Sorcery,” replied my father, grim and unyielding. But not very informative. Well, I knew my way around my father.

“How was he caught?”

“His neighbor saw him work his well with magic.”

The old man, still blubbering, was about to die because he’d drawn up water with magic instead of with what little strength his arms had to give. I didn’t care about the man, really, but it felt like swamp water against my mind, stagnant and fetid. The animals had been killed for food, for their pelts, to protect livestock, or some combination of all three. The bandit had been a hot kill, a contest of skill. The pleasure came from besting an animal’s stealth or speed, a man’s strength and weapons. There was none of that in this old man’s death. It was shameful and inelegant, I thought as the man wailed and choked and wept and died slowly and painfully amongst the flames.

I knew that one day I would be king. One day, Camelot would be mine. Mine to defend, mine to rule, mine to kill. Surely it wouldn’t be too presumptuous, then, to kill those destined for the pyre anyway. I wasn’t entirely sure where the idea came from, but it grew within me. I started asking my father if I could help find the sorcerers. At first he resisted the idea, but I wore him down with persistent pleas, as well as by insinuating myself into the searches for those who were distressingly obvious with their abilities. By the time I was seventeen, most rumours of magic and sorcerers came to me.

Some I disproved, if it was clearly the work of a jealous neighbour. But some were true, and for them, if they lived alone, I could offer mercy. It didn’t happen often, just one every few months, but rather than let them be taken to such an ill death, I would arrive silently in the late evening, when they were alone, and say I was visiting my future subjects. Most were more than happy to tell me of their lives and tribulations, and to drink wine from the royal stores. And if they nodded off with a pleased smile on their face, well, that wasn’t too bad. It still wasn’t as good as a full-blooded kill, but this wasn’t about me. Well, not much. I would take the sorcerer and lay them out on a bed, or the table, or the floor. And I would take my knife and make one graceful, silvery arc through all the intricate workings of their throat. The blood would be thick and beautiful, hot and sticky, and I would breathe in deep to steady myself as it spattered like honey over my face, my hands, my naked body. I would cut just a small square from their bloodstained clothing, to remember their lives, their faces as they poured their hearts out to me, their calmly sleeping forms as they bathed me with the most intimate of gifts.

I had a bloodstained leather bag that I put my clothes in, beforehand. I was loathe to wipe the blood off after a kill, but it was the intelligent thing to do, so I did it. Some blood always stuck though, and I couldn't afford any suspicion turning in my direction, so, the bag. New stains on the already stained bag would not draw attention. The cloak I wore, as well as two leather sandals for afterwards, were bloodstained through an through, but there was little to be done about that, so I simply hid them as well as I could after washing them. Secret passages really came in handy. The only things I kept in my room were the patches of blood soaked fabric, each carefully labled by a piece of parchment pinned to it, in a locked wooden box in the back of my dresser.

For those who did not live alone, I had to improvise. I would watch them for days, see if I could find a pattern to work with. If I could, I would catch them between the inn and their house, or on the way to visit a friend, and take them someplace private to repeat the discussion phase, plying them with the drugged wine. Those, I had to kill in dark alleys and the outskirts of town amongst the trees. Not my preference, but still better than the pyre. There were still those I could not help, of course. Those whose trespasses were so egregious, so blatant, that they had to be brought in immediately. Guinevere, Morgana’s maidservant, was one such.


	2. Now

It all started with a mysterious illness in Camelot. Gaius and my manservant, Merlin, were trying their best to find a way to cure it, when the blacksmith Tom, Morgana’s maidservant’s father who had taken ill, recovered. On the trail of his ‘magical’ recovery, I had to question him. When he casually confirmed that Gwen had indeed been there with him at all times, I could have gladly cut off one of his hands. Didn’t he realize who we were, what we were searching for? Didn’t he realize he’d just given us cause to suspect his own daughter? In a few days, it might well be Gwen on the pyre, and with this much attention, offering her mercy would be impossible. If there was the slightest proof, he would be as guilty as my father of Gwen’s death, and that would make Morgana impossible to live with. I might not feel love or empathy like those who were whole, but at least I wasn’t as stupid as this great gormless idiot.

And there, found under the blacksmith’s pillow, was a poultice. After that there was nothing to be done but to arrest the girl. Merlin and Morgana were both quite vexed, and the girl herself was in such a state that I found myself shuddering just thinking about her fate on the pyre. I had never had that kind of madness people call innocence, but this girl had it in spades, and seeing that kind of wholeness go to the flames would be more foul than usual. I’m not sure how I can be a monster and yet not hate the wholeness of those who have it. Perhaps I will never know. Uncharacteristically, I argued for the girl’s innocence, for all the good it did against my father’s madness.

I could not get it out of my head though. I doubted the girl was a sorceress, but didn’t that just make it worse? Should I take the risk and give her mercy in her cell? But if I did, I’d risk drawing attention to myself. I continued to debate the idea as my father held a Council meeting to see what progress was being made on fixing the illness (none). And then Merlin walked in and confesses to being a sorcerer. I was surrounded by idiots, not the least of which was my manservant. Merlin reminded me of Gwen, to be honest. They both had that sense of wholeness, and here was one trying to sacrifice himself for the other. It defied comprehension. How did people survive?

It took some fast talking to get Merlin out of that predicament, but I managed it. Not that Merlin thanked me for it, the ingrate. Then again, Merlin defied most of the codes of behavior and reaction I had so painstakingly learned. He was a constant puzzle to me, and there was just… something about him. I just couldn’t quite place it.

After the council, I was at loose ends. Gwen’s execution had been moved up to the evening, so if I wanted to do anything for her, I’d have to do it now. It was a huge risk. I’d have to drug the guards, drug Gwen, kill her discreetly (no hot-sticky-glorious blood, not this time), subject myself to my own drugged wine, and claim I had been knocked out with the guards. Ironically, if I blamed sorcery, nobody would think to question me. But then, they never did. That was if everything went perfectly. If anyone came by there would be trouble. It was a potential weak spot in my armour of secrecy. It wasn’t a smart move.

I wondered if stupidity was catching as I carefully measured out a dose of sleeping draught into a wineskin.

It started out well enough. I plied the guard with the wine and soon enough he was asleep on the floor. Next I offered Gwen a ‘last drink to dull the pain’ and she was more than glad to accept. It was only when she was passed out on the floor that things started to spin out of control.

I was kneeling in the straw next to the girl. She was lying on her back, carefully positioned, breathing evenly. I had my knife placed gently against her flesh, lying right between the ribs where one solid thrust would reach the heart, killing her quickly. There was a gasp, and I looked up to see Merlin, wide-eyed and horrified in the mouth of the cell.

“No!” His eyes glowed molten gold and his outstretched hand pointed out at me. It was like a massive hand pushed up against my chest and shoved me back, hard. I gasped, barely keeping ahold of the knife. Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin was actually a sorcerer.

“Arthur, what are you _doing_?” Merlin asked, bewildered and anguished, hand still outstretched.

I could lie, but really where was the point in it. “I’m giving her an easy death.”

“No, you can’t,” he said anxiously, face screwed up in some unreadable expression. “We know what’s causing the sickness, you can’t kill Gwen now! I mean, you can’t kill Gwen ever! She’s not even a sorceress. I-I am. Please, just let me find out how to kill the monster and you can turn me over to your father, I won’t fight you, please.” Merlin ended his impassioned plea, hand now at his side. The pressure on me had eased, letting me stand on my own again.

I had sensed a kind of echo of what I was in Valiant. The same kind of brokenness, a sense of gaps where there should be wholeness. Not nearly to my extent, but a monster all the same. My father was more edges than anything else; razors to cut you so quickly you didn’t notice until you were screaming. Gwen and Merlin though, might as well have been fluffy kittens. Merlin had a fierceness that I couldn’t place, but the kitten fuzz overlay it most of the time. I had suspected for some time now that magic wasn’t the evil thing my father made it out to be. Either way, it wouldn’t have mattered with the sorcerers I’d granted mercy, for even if they were monsters they were my monsters, and it wasn’t like I was in any position to judge.

But Merlin was no monster, and since he had magic, that meant not all sorcerers were evil. Well. That made things considerably easier. Not that I was going to tell him that. My silence would probably cause him anxiety and fear, and it would be fitting repayment for his silence about his magic. So I’d let him stew for a while before I let him off the hook.

“Then what were you doing down in the dungeons, instead of finding out how to kill it?” I frowned at him.

“Er.” I could see him desperately looking for a plausible lie, and merely raised an eyebrow at him. “I… came to see Gwen?”

“Merlin.”

“IcametoasktheDragon,” Merlin said in a rush, looking down.

“The… Dragon.”

There was indeed a dragon. And it liked riddles about as much as it seemed to dislike me. It was only fair though, since I disliked it immediately. A few hours later there was an afanc, just to round out my spectacular day.

Gwen went free, after. And Merlin and I had a long, long chat about secrets, and history, and monsters. And destiny. 

And at the end of the very, very long day, Merlin brought me dinner.


End file.
